Flora Fortescue and the Forgotten Prophecy
by Alice Starling
Summary: The last thing she'd ever expect to be doing is traipsing about the world with three former Slytherins and a prophecy she might have to die to protect. Completely canon compliant.


**Chapter One: Promises and Prophecies**

She had been barely more than a child.

It had been the summer after her fourth year, the summer after she'd spent a year in fear of Slytherin's mythic monster; she'd been outside, yelling obscenities at Lee Jordan, and her uncle had been closing up shop. He'd dragged her away from her brewing fight, brought her into the little store, and explained to her in a very grave tone that he had something important to tell her.

She'd nodded along blankly, only half-paying attention until he told her that this was something she needed to know in the event of his death. He'd whipped out his wand, muttered a spell, and flipped the table she was sitting at upside down; a few more muttered charms and the foot of one of the legs was removing itself, revealing a hollowed-out compartment that held something wrapped in black velvet.

He never had told what it exactly it was – but what he had told her, she had committed to memory. If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was to return, and if her uncle were to die, then she was to retrieve the thing wrapped in black velvet and take it to Albus Dumbledore. The Death Eaters would want it, but she could not let that happen – she had to protect the unknown thing with her life.

And so she agreed to lay her life on the line. Her uncle had taught her all the spells to be able to get to it: and it took hours, sitting in the little ice cream shop as it grew dark outside, attempting magic that was too complicated for her.

Once she had proven she was able to get into the secret compartment, she was sworn to complete secrecy; and she'd tried to put it out of her head.

In fact, she managed to make it four years without consciously thinking of it.

But then her world fell apart.

When Florean had initially gone missing, taken by the Death Eaters, she'd been wracked with grief; her mother had been convinced of the worst. But even as time passed, Flora Fortescue couldn't help but cling to that tiny shred of hope inside of her – that stubborn hold on optimism was something she shared with Florean, she told herself – even though her mother had been convinced of the worst right from the start.

Her mother had always said that, among other things, Flora was unreasonably idealistic for a person her age. She was nineteen and had just begun her Auror training the year Dumbledore was killed – and wasn't that the marker everyone used to differentiate the times? 'This is when it went wrong,, here. This is when it all fell apart.'

She quit her Auror training a few weeks before the Ministry was taken, a few days after Florean was kidnaped. It was a decision Marnie Savage, her Auror mentor, had supported; Flora's mother, who worked as a maid at the Leaky Cauldron, offered no objections to her daughter barricading herself in her bedroom for a year or two.

Flora had only once mentioned trying to join the Order of the Phoenix, a whispered comment after dinner one night because you never really knew who was listening, but had seen the look in her mother's eyes. For Flora to play at warrior would kill her mother; to worry about her only child like that, especially after she was convinced they had killed her favorite brother, her daughter's namesake.

So Flora hadn't done much of anything, even though she had wanted to; but, really, she couldn't risk hurting her mother. Her mother, who had lost her husband during the first Wizarding War, whose brother may or may not have been dead; it would have been cruel, heartless, to go charging into battle and leave her mother behind. Her mother insisted that it was better to let the braver, the stronger fight the wars; her mother's eyes would narrow with condescension when she reminded her daughter that she had been in Hufflepuff, a house that showcased neither of these traits.

No matter how much time had passed, her mother still had some residual bitterness that her daughter wasn't placed in Gryffindor.

It was October 29th when they finally received confirmation of what Flora had hoped desperately against and her mother had already been sure of: Florean was dead, tortured at the hands of the Death Eaters. It wasn't until Halloween that Flora remembered to do what she had promised she would, years ago.

She had come by Floo Powder, stealing a handful from the pot by her mother's fireplace, sneaking away while her mother was out. It had been irresponsible, true, but she had sincerely doubted that her mother would have allowed her to go into Diagon Alley by herself, never mind the fact that she was almost twenty years old.

But the moment she stepped out of the fireplace, into the old ice cream shop, she suddenly found herself wanting someone, at least; her often-spiteful mother, one of the old friends that all had joined the Order and wound up knee-deep in war.

The ice cream shop was trashed. Tables were strewn everywhere, the counter had been dismantled and kicked about; but this was more than just malice. They had been searching for something.

The windows – most of them were shattered, anyway – had been boarded up, and streams of late afternoon sunlight fell in slanting stripes across the floor. Dust was illuminated in the air, and Flora sneezed; but she produced her wand from the back pocket of her pants, waving it irritably to clear the air.

Despite herself, she couldn't help but feel that if Florean knew the state his shop was in, he'd be rolling in his grave. He'd been an impossible-to-please neat freak – Flora remembered when she'd been younger and, tomboy that she was, always used to come charging in covered in dirt or mud or grime. Florean had nearly blown a blood vessel trying to keep things clean in her wake.

Flora stopped to lean against the wall and chuckle to herself, her eyes drifting closed as she remembered things as they had been. Florean had raised her as much as her mother had, been an integral part of her life.

But this was no time for reminiscing. She pushed herself away from the wall, kicking through the rubble until she found a table leg, unique for the strange marking on the foot of it. Scooping it up, she rubbed her thumb across the crude carving- it was a little broken heart, done with a pocketknife when she was fifteen.

It hadn't been so that she'd remember which table leg held the secret, important package; she'd actually been lying under the table, long after closing, cursing Lee Jordan and his beautiful eyes and his beautiful dread locks. It had seemed instinctive, then, to carve it on the table leg that was supposedly so important; she had been young, stupid, and had thought herself heartbroken.

So she supposed it was lucky for her that even though she'd been a scruffy little tomboy, she'd been a hopeless romantic. She'd since grown out of the romantic in her, although she had a thought she'd never left behind being a scruffy little tomboy.

Grasping the table leg in one hand and caressing her wand with the other, she only had to think for a moment before a flood of charms – she was barely aware of them as they passed through her lips – began bubbling from her mouth.

When the carved clawed foot fell from the leg, Flora was almost afraid to look, struck by the sudden fear that the secret, important thing would not be there anymore. But there it was, a small unknown thing wrapped in black velvet; she pocketed her wand and pulled it out of its hiding place slowly.

The thing inside the swatch of velvet was hard and spherical. Unwrapping it with trepidation, she was almost disappointed when it was uncovered and she realized what it was. It was a thing of spun glass, warm to the touch, with smoke twisting around in its depths: a prophecy.

This was what was so bloody important? A _prophecy_? Had Florean been mad?

She snorted to herself, wrapping the thing back up. Having quite cheerfully failed Divination – the old bat who'd taught it, Trelawney, had absolutely loathed her because Flora had spent most of her time trying to hex that Slytherin Warrington – she had no faith at all in prophecies.

For a moment – only one tiny moment, a moment she would feel so very guilty for later on in life, looking back and wondering what might've happened if she'd been as much of a coward as her mother always made her out to be – she considered just putting the damn thing back and going home.

The thought was immediately squashed. She had made a promise, thinking it terribly courageous of her to do so; but it was the so-called Hufflepuff in her that created her need to keep that promise.

She'd had to come in by Floo powder because Uncle Florean had spelled the ice cream shop so that people couldn't Apparate in; he'd done it when she was just a toddler. He'd been annoyed with all the people that popped in whenever they felt like it. If she remembered right, though, it was possible to Apparate out. It struck her that maybe she ought to go back to the Leaky Cauldron and gather some clothes and things. Funny she hadn't thought of that beforehand – but forethought was never exactly her talent.

But she didn't want to go back- her mother would probably be done with her rounds, and there was no way Flora would carry through with her plans if she had to face down her mum.

That was fine, though; she wasn't going to be sticking around Diagon Alley any longer. Hell, if things went according to plan she wouldn't even be on this side of the ocean anymore – but she was going the Muggle way, God help her. Apparating was a pain enough in the arse for her just going across the country. The thought of attempting transcontinental Apparation made her wince.

She tucked the prophecy, wrapped snugly in its black velvet, into the inside pocket of her tattered denim jacket. It made an unfortunate-looking bulge, but she didn't particularly care. She'd thrown on the first clothes she'd found in her dresser: faded jeans with unsightly holes in the knees, a threadbare black jumper, her father's old military jacket, and a pair of clunky black boots that used to be Florean's. She'd remembered enough to get her hands on some Muggle money, so there was a wad of bills nestled next to the prophecy.

Her mother would think she'd gone absolutely bonkers, charging off like this on some hair-brained mission. Flora herself couldn't help but think it was a bit mad herself; but after spending ages cooped up in her room with nothing to do except remember that there were people out there fighting a war, it made perfect sense.

So, pulling the sleeves of her jumper down over her knuckles and taking a steadying breath, she Apparated straight into Muggle London.

Or, to be more precise, Apparated right outside the Leaky Cauldron in Muggle London. Only one person, a harried-looking woman with her arms laden with packages, shot her an odd glance, but otherwise she went unnoticed.

The sudden hustle and bustle of the city compared to the morbid silence of the ice cream parlour shocked Flora, and she stood there for a moment with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying to gain her bearings. Her father had been a Muggle, of course, so she had more than a passing knowledge of how his world had worked; her family had lived in a Muggle flat, not far from the Leaky Cauldron, up until he'd died and her mum had been forced to find employment.

Her father and Florean had always gotten along famously, she remembered faintly, before there the sound of someone shrieking curse words sounded out above all the other noises. Shaken from her reverie, she set off down the street – and then abruptly remembered that while she knew how the Muggle world _worked_, she had no idea where things _were_.

She blinked, running a hand through her hair, mussing the already unruly mess of tawny golden curls that fell to just past her shoulders.

Forethought was _really _not her forte.

In the end, she wound up paying a Muggle – a pretty girl with blue hair and lots of metal piercings in her face – a stack of bills to get her to the airport. The girl, who Flora thought maybe to be under the influence of too much alcohol, was quite willing to help; Flora couldn't help but think that had things been different she wouldn't have minded being friends with this strange young girl.

Flora found herself on an plane – it hadn't been too much trouble bewitching a piece of paper to look like a passport, and she paid for her ticket honestly. It was sort of strange, really, to be in the middle of all these Muggles, on a bloody plane; it was almost enough to make her forget about the Wizarding World altogether. She could just fly away, take herself to anywhere in the world, leave others to fight the battle; but the prophecy in her pocket kept nudging her, its warmth apparent even through its wrappings and her jacket.

She was in a daze through the flight – the only thing she really remembered was a flight attendant asking her if she was all right – and then everything was a blur of mumbled words until she was standing outside an airport in Massachusetts. As in, the United States of America, Massachussetts.

The very thought made her want to faint.

More than that, she was standing in a whole new bloody country without so much of a clear idea of where she was headed after she reached Salem.

It scared the hell out of her that she was alone, that she was almost lost; the past day had been a blur. One place after another until she'd landed in Boston (in Massachussetts, in America, for Merlin's sake).

And then she Apparated into Salem.

Or, more precisely, landed on a sidewalk in Salem, turned, and smashed straight into – out of all the people in the world – Adrian Pucey.

She barely saw his face before she went crashing to the ground with a howl of outrage, twisting as she fell to wrap her hands protectively around the spherical shape in her pocket. Hitting the ground with a thud, she was barely aware of the slender, well-manicured hand shoved down in front of her; she ignored Pucey's freakishly well-cared-for hand and shoved herself to her feet, squeezing the shape in her pocket lightly to make sure that it was all right.

"Figures, doesn't it?" asked Pucey with a bit of a laugh in his voice. "Out of all the people on the blasted earth – well, you're not so bad, I suppose."

Once on her feet, she shot a glare at Pucey. He'd been a Slytherin, same year as her, at school – not a particularly bad one, as the only one on his Quidditch team never to purposely commit a foul – but still a Slytherin.

So what in the hell was he doing here?

"You- Wha- The-..."

He shook his head pitifully. "You're here for the same reason I'm here, I suppose." He lowered his voice, whispering conspiratorially. "Taking refuge with the Salem Witch's Institute? Not just you and me, either; there's a Death Eater's kid here, skipped out on school. Theodore Nott. He was a couple years below me in school, bit of a loner, but, hell, so was I. You all right?"

"Bloody..."

"Hell?"

"Will you stop talking for a moment, please?" she exploded, hand automatically reaching for her wand until she remembered that she was standing outside on a busy Muggle street. "I can't..."

"You don't look so well. You are here to come to the Institute?"

She nodded weakly. For most of her time at school, she'd thought of Adrian Pucey as unpleasant and mean – but now that she thought about it, she'd never actually spoken to him outside of a few semi-polite words after a Quidditch game. "The Institute...That's...You know where it is?"

"Don't you?"

She shook her head slowly, and he let out a loud laugh. "Fortescue, you may have gotten decent N.E.W.T.'s, but you are still impossibly thick."

"I figured I could find it well enough!" she protested.

He rose an eyebrow. "Fortescue – hell, can I just call you Flora? Might as well let me. I'll the only other familiar face around the Institute. Well, except Theo – and you might actually like him."

"Have you always been this bloody talkative?" she interjected, dazed.

Pucey nodded cheerfully. "Like you're one to talk. I seem to remember you being a bit more prone to chattering. You sure you're all right, then?"

Flora gaped at him.

It looked like Adrian Pucey: same tall, broad-shouldered, slim build; same tidy chestnut hair, brushed to perfection; even the same dark eyes, glinting now with amusement.

There was no doubt that it was Adrian Pucey, and it almost hurt her mind to comprehend: Adrian Pucey in the Muggle world, wearing sneakers, jeans, and, underneath an unzipped grey hooded jacket, a T-shirt that advertised, of all things, a Muggle rock band.

"Who are you and what have you done with Pucey?" she demanded, yanking her wand from her pocket and brandishing it at him.

He threw up his hands, taking a step back and hissing, "Put that thing away, will you? You're the middle of a Muggle village, remember?"

Slowly, her cheeks flushing a bright red, she lowered the wand. She had been barely aware of her surroundings – she'd been barely aware of anything until she'd smashed into Pucey, and now she was trying desperately to make things compute.

"Look, the Ministry here – or whatever they call it, bloody Americans – will be on your arse in a heartbeat if you start using magic around here. Come back with me to the Institute, and we'll get everything sorted out," Pucey said soothingly, edging closer to her and slinging an arm around her shoulders. "And close your mouth. You look like a fish."

Making no room to remove his arm from her person, she settled for stammering noises.

"Do you think you can manage Side-Along Apparation? Just...take a deep breath."

Before she was aware of what was happening, she was being compressed by everything around, like being crammed through a tiny little tube: they popped through the air and landed next to ornate iron-wrought gate, set in an enormous stone wall. They were surrounded by what looked like forest, although it looked vaguely different than any forest Flora had seen before. But she only had a second to take in her surroundings before she turned and rounded on Pucey, screaming at him loudly: "What is _wrong_ with you? You can't just _do _that to someone! You..."

"You wanted to get the Institute. You are at the Institute. So what, exactly, are you shrieking about, woman?" he demanded, his friendly grin looking more and more like a smirk.

"I didn't want help from you!" she squealed, fumbling for her wand again.

"Why? 'Cause I'm a Slytherin? Fortescue, we're not at Hogwarts anymore. We're not even on that side of the world anymore. Calm the hell down."

"I'll curse your ears off, I will! Where are we?"

"The Salem Institute," replied Pucey, exasperated. "Idiot."

She sighed, taking a step towards the gate and pressing herself against the cold metal bars. Through it she could see a wide expanse of green grass, a hill upon which stood an enormous old brick mansion. It made an imposing figure against the blue sky, although nowhere near as impressive as Hogwarts; this building looked like it could only be a few centuries old. There were people – students, she figured, with a twinge of nostalgia – milling around, shouting, laughing, and playing.

It was so different from her old school, but somehow shockingly familiar. She sagged against the gate, tucking her wand back into her pocket; so she had made it after all.

"We'll have to wait for one of those prats to let us in. Walewaine still hasn't told me the charm to unlock the gate," explained Pucey, a touch of sullenness creeping into his voice.

Sure enough, a figure clothed in black appeared in the doorway of the building and – taking what felt like an eternity to do so – strolled down the hill to the gate. When he was halfway down the hill, Flora could make out his face and recognize it clearly.

"Nott? Theodore bloody Nott?" she grumbled.

Pucey raised an eyebrow. "I'm quite sure that's not his middle name."

The younger boy reached the gate and stared at Flora, uncomprehending, for a moment; then the corner of his mouth twitched it what maybe could have been deemed a smile. He produced a wand from the pocket of his jeans and tapped the gate twice, murmuring something under his breath as he did so.

With a protestant squeak, the gate swung open, and Pucey shepherded her onto the grounds.

Flora glared at Nott for a moment – she remembered him from a school, although he'd been a Slytherin and two years below her. He was tall and thin; but where at least Pucey had some muscle on his bones, Nott just looked horribly stringy and weedy in his black jeans, black long-sleeved t-shirt, and black boots.

Still, Flora knew all too well who it was this boy's father was.

"What're you doing here, Nott?" she snarled. "Thought that by now you would've joined your father as a Death Eater, like that little Malfoy git."

Nott fairly exploded. "Malfoy? Malfoy's nothing but a – " He cut himself off, shaking his head and looking pointedly away from Flora. "Lovely. Great little family away from home we'll have going, right?" With that, he fell silent; and for some niggling reason, Flora felt guilty.

The trio walked in silence up to the mansion. As they neared it, the sounds of people laughing and talking cheerily grew louder – the accents were unmistakably American, but it still reminded Flora forcibly of her time at Hogwarts. Everything was smaller, true; but as Nott moved forward to open the door – it was painted in a chipped, peeling black – she felt something rush through her as she crossed the threshold.

"Welcome to the Institute," said Pucey softly, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

They had stepped into a warm, dimly-lit room, painted in varying shades of orange and red. There were couches and chairs strewn around, people lying in them haphazardly. There was a fireplace crackling in one wall of the room, and two teenagers – a boy and a girl – were bickering next to it.

There was a wide, rectangular doorway on the opposite of the room, leading out into an enormous hallway lined with doors. Pucey nodded in that direction and explained shortly, "That way are the classrooms and the offices. Towards your left – " He swept an arm in one direction, pointing out a nondescript door, "is the dining hall. The right would be the library. Second level is boys' dormitories, third is girls', and the teachers' quarters are on the fourth. Things are...a bit different here than in Hogwarts."

He grinned even more widely. "It's still nice to see someone – anyone – from home. Theo's not the most talkative, you know."

Flora was still reeling.

"And he's here because – Well, I'll let him tell you about it," Pucey hastily amended, catching Nott's stony glare. "The Headmistress, Walewaine; she'll want to speak with you, of course."

"Oh. Of course." Flora still didn't move at first; she just stood there, glancing around dazedly until Pucey gave her a sharp shove forward.

Nott rolled his eyes, gesturing in the direction of the classrooms and offices. "Go on, then."

"I'll take her, Theo." Pucey grabbed Flora's elbow and began tugging her along, giving Nott a regretful glance. "You should give him the benefit of the doubt. He's here, isn't he? He's not off terrorizing the masses with his hooded nutter of a dad."

"Oh, clearly he cares about the masses. That's why he's hiding, like a coward, while other people fight the war. He's just scared because he knows we'll win," snapped Flora, glowering at Pucey.

He raised an eyebrow. "If being here makes him a coward, what does it make you?"

"I have a mission! I have a – " She trailed off at the inquisitive look on his face. "Well, it's a secret of course. I can't tell _you_."

As a matter of fact, she wasn't particularly sure she should be telling this Walewaine woman: Florean had told her to take the thing to Dumbledore. But in the wake of Dumbledore's death, wouldn't this be the next best thing? As far as she was aware, Voldemort's reign hadn't yet extended across the ocean- although from the rumors floating around the Leaky Cauldron, it would soon.

They were in the expansive hallway now, and two or three of who she assumed to be teachers exited a classroom and shot her a curious look. One of them called out a short hello to Pucey, who said something appropriately polite.

At the very end of the hallway, there was an enormous painting with an intricately engraved wooden frame; it took up almost the entire wall. The subject, it seemed, was a rather dispassionate looking tiny grey dog – it was much to small to fit its large blank background, and it looked rather out of place as it paced along against the blue and purple shaded background. It barked at them a few times as they approached, and Pucey chuckled to himself.

The dog – it might've looked large and menacing had it been in a smaller frame – turned out to be a mangy looking wolf who growled at them when they stopped in front of the painting.

"Perkins," mumbled Pucey, and the wolf growled at them once more before the painting swung away from the wall to reveal rather ornate golden double doors. "If your mission is so all-fired important, you can go on in alone."

"No. No, um, that's all right." Flora offered him a weak smile, and he glanced back down the hallway – Nott was still in that big common room-like area, talking half-heartedly to the couple who had been bickering.

So Pucey stepped forward and yanked open one of the doors, tugging Flora along behind him. They stepped into an enormous room, the entire opposite wall of which was a stained glass window depicting a noble-looking centaur; the white carpet was stained with multi-colored shades of light. The office itself was mostly empty – all along the side walls were bronze busts, presumably of headmasters and headmistresses past, and they all seemed to be snoring. There was a young woman sitting in an impressive stone chair behind a large mahogany desk, writing furiously with a quill; closer to them were two rather cushy looking armchairs, sitting on the opposite side of the desk.

At their entrance, the woman glanced up; she nibbled at the end of her quill and then waved at them beckoningly. Pucey strode forward happily, dragging Flora along behind him: the woman waved again, and he shoved Flora into one of the armchairs, dropping into the other one himself.

"Headmistress, this is Flora Fortescue," began Pucey, and she suddenly looked interested.

"Fortescue? I know that name," she said, smiling warmly at Flora – she spoke with a light Yorkshire accent, no doubt watered down by years in America. "You're not Florean's girl, are you? I wasn't aware he had a daughter."

"Oh, no, ma'am. My father was a Muggle, see, and an orphan. Never really had a last name, and he adored my family, so he took the name," explained Flora. "Florean was my uncle – my mum's brother. But the Death Eaters got him a while back, and we just recently found out..."

Walewaine interrupted her, waving a hand impatiently. "I'm sorry for your loss, I am, but I was under the impression that your uncle was in the possession of something important." Flora eyed Pucey suspiciously, and Walewaine sighed. "It's fine, he's fine – do you know what I'm talking about? Is that why you're here?"

"I have it. The...thing. But..." Again, Flora gave Pucey a pointed look.

Walewaine studied him curiously for a moment, looking almost surprised to see him sitting there. "Oh, well, Mr. Pucey is fine enough company. Are you on your own?" Flora nodded quickly. "Well, then I suppose you need all the friends you can get. Besides, Mr. Pucey and his friend have proved themselves very trustworthy – having faithfully informed us of all what's happened on your side of the pond."

Flora reached a hand into her pocket, fingertips brushing the velvet-wrapped sphere. "My uncle swore me to secrecy, see, and said I was only supposed to tell Albus Dumbledore. But Dumbledore's dead."

"An astute observation." The corner of Walewaine's mouth lifted up in the beginnings of a teasing smile, and Flora momentarily lost her momentum – this woman was strange. Was that a prerequisite to be put in charge of a wizarding school? "So, with Dumbledore gone, you decided to come all the way here and see if I could help?" Flora didn't respond. "You are very impulsive, aren't you?"

"I'm not even sure if I should show you it – and..."

Walewaine leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk and cupping her chin in her hands. She looked very young, but there was a certain awareness, a wisdom in her eyes. "I have no way to prove to you that you can trust me – and most certainly no way of proving you can trust Mr. Pucey. Any communications between Professor Dumbledore and me were destroyed to preserve secrecy. I do, however, know that the...item in question was hidden in one of the table legs in your uncle's shop."

Again, Flora paused, trying to force herself to weigh the options. But she was tired, and confused: and she hadn't come all this way just for nothing. So she dug her fingers into her pocket and scooped out the prophecy, carefully unwrapping it from the cloth it was swathed in. She held it carefully in her palm, the warmth of it spreading through her fingers.

Walewaine looked contemplative; she settled back in her chair, folding her fingers together. "So much concern over such a little thing. I don't even know what it says, myself. I advise you to try not to break it."

"Funnily enough, that had occurred to me," Flora muttered, curling her fingers around the prophecy. Stealing a glance at Pucey, Flora was pleasing to find he looked completely bewildered – he had brought his hand up, as he had thought to touch the sphere in her hand but had decided better of it. "Well, what am I supposed to _do _with it?"

The headmistress's eyes flicked towards Flora, studying her for a split second, before she returned to staring at the prophecy. "I have some things I must attend to. You should take it – I suppose it's in your care now. You will need to stay here a few days, but I daresay that...Well, that there's someone else who would like a look at this." As Flora began wrapping the sphere back up, she felt Walewaine's heavy gaze on her. "There is supposed to be no other way to hear a prophecy – or, rather, the echo of a prophecy – than to break it. And once it is broken..."

But she trailed off then, as Flora tucked the prophecy back into her pocket and Pucey sprang to his feet; Walewaine remained silent as the former Slytherin dragged the former Hufflepuff to the door, but she spoke just as Pucey reached for the doorknob.

"You're going to face trouble, I think. Even though you're not supposed to, even though you're not the one everything is riding on – you'll have to play your part. We all do." Walewaine's eyes were partially closed, and for a wild, brief moment Flora wondered if she was giving her own prophecy: but no, her eyes flew open and she continued speaking, seemingly lucid. "You'll need all the friends you can get, I think. And Miss Fortescue? My condolences, about your uncle. He was one of _my_ friends."

* * *

**A/N: So I'm thinking I'd like a beta for this? At the very least someone who can help me from messing up with British terms, which I'm trying to use to be faithful and everything. This is supposed to be as completely canon-compliant as possible, and I'd love for someone to help me with that, y/y? Plus, this is an original character/Blaise Zabini story, and I'd love to keep her from being a Mary Sue. Very much. ****(Unfortunately, Blaise doesn't show up until chapter three. So it goes.)**

**Also, just as a warning, there is slashiness ahead with some of the other characters. Just FYI and in case you're uncomfortable with that.**


End file.
